The First Silence
by Khalee
Summary: As the Kalmar Union dissolves, Norway and Denmark are left to battle their own demons alone. Part of my historical AU series.
1. Chapter 1

_Note: This story was originally meant as a longer one-shot, but seeing that the first part has been ready and waiting since August, I'm publishing it in three chapters because I need the motivation to finish it. Well, time mostly, but also motivation._

_Hetalia does not belong to me._

* * *

_Copenhagen__, 1523_

How strange it was for a mere candle, frail and melted to a stub of gnarled wax, to burn so blindingly bright against eyes that had for too long stared into darkness.

Lukas' eyelids narrowed to thin indigo slits as he cupped his right hand around the wavering flame, close enough to feel the heat lick at his skin. The light was seeping through, setting his palm aglow with lines that pulsed with luminescent blood along the seams where his fingers met, and Lukas faltered, his gaze held spellbound by the crimson trails and his heart still struggling wildly while the last shreds of the broken union stretched and tore at his being, weaker and weaker as their erstwhile allies moved farther away towards bittersweet freedom.

Such a simple act it must have been, to push the gate open and walk out into the welcoming night, and Lukas could almost see them whilst shadows played against the farthest wall like distorted dolls guided by a crazed puppeteer, two hooded silhouettes, the tall, relentless man wrapping a shielding arm against the other's shoulders as the boy threw one last, wary look back, for the Swede would not leave his ward behind, not the sweet, innocent Finnish boy who had so obliviously captured the former Viking's heart, though whether it was the pretty face or the soul yet untainted that kept him enthralled, Lukas could not fathom.

"Join us," Berwald had urged him the night before, "leave him to rot alone in his own poison and spite." They had remained behind in deceitful safety after the Dane had once again fallen prey to the deep stupor of violence and alcohol, and the other man towered over him as he spoke, standing at his side under the barred window, patches of moonlight falling on his body in-between cross-shaped shadows to reveal dark bruises, blossoming and fading alike, across his jaw and along his half-bare chest and down his arm under the newly ripped sleeve of his shirt. Lukas tore his eyes away from the sight, his own marks from a different kind of embraces burning hidden underneath the rough fabric of his garments. They were not so different, Berwald and he, both carrying their scars so that a soft-spoken Finnish boy and a willful Icelandic child could keep on living with their flesh unblemished and their minds unmarred, and yet all Lukas could think of was how much he craved to spit in the other man's face.

How dare he. How dare he presume that the Norwegian could break free as easily, with his mortals still pledged to the union and with the Dane's own claws sheathed deeply within his core, yet to be ripped away though the punctures now festered in poisoned blood. How dare he speak words of hope that can never be, words that branded the Norwegian as traitor no matter his choice, for nothing but broken vows lay concealed at the end of every path as he stood and pondered alone at the crossroads of the damned.

The look in the Swede's eyes as Lukas pressed his lips tighter together and turned away silent and empty was vengeance enough, the desperate look of a man too proud to plead, too wary to threaten.

Let him doubt. Let him question his wisdom. Let him fear betrayal.

And fear he did, for barely a night and a day had passed before Lukas felt the unseen thread that bound their souls and lands into one snap like a steel spring resentfully hacked through and unwound for good measure, so it would coil back and strike with the strength and bite of an unleashed viper, and found himself gasping for breath, his chest struggling to rise under the substanceless weight of unravelled decades, his limbs too numb to reach out and soothe the Icelandic child shivering and whimpering in his sleep.

When the mists of turmoil faded away from his mind, the child was once more slumbering peacefully at his side, traces of tears drying behind silvery locks, and Lukas staggered up on unsteady legs, feeling his way along the wall to the well-worn desk where a candle lay unlit amongst neat stacks of leather-bound books. He would not wait in darkness like a prey already captured and subdued, not for the one who would soon prowl blindly in search for fresh canvas to carve his anger and pain.

Somewhere in the deserted halls the Dane was stirring, too far yet to be heard but close enough for the other nation to feel him, and Lukas gritted his teeth and yanked a drawer open, slipping his hand between papers and quills until his fingers touched cold iron. The hidden blade felt frail to his touch, too much of a toy to be taken away on the day when Matthias, bleeding and scarred by Swedish steel, had held the Norwegian pinned at the end of his own sword while servants were stripping his room of weapons, but with the edge wickedly honed during many a night of solitary resentment. Lukas set the candle down and touched the dagger softly to his left palm, relishing in the ghostly sharpness against his skin, in the promise of a weapon small enough to conceal, slender enough to push between bones, keen enough to pierce skin and flesh and heart and...

"Brother? Why did we hurt so?" the tiny whisper cut through the silence, and Lukas' grip on the hilt slipped as his body jolted, letting the blade open a trail of blood that trickled along his fingers and fell to douse the weak flame with an angry hiss. Biting back a curse, Lukas let the dagger drop and clenched his fist in the hem of his tunic, tightening his hold as the fabric soaked up the offending fluid. The candle was sizzling with a sickeningly sweet smell and he sank his unharmed fingers in the molten wax, knocking it over and smashing it against the wood.

"Sweden and Finland left us," he answered simply as he turned to face his brother. The child was a ghostly form in the dark, pale skin and hair shimmering as if possessed by a dim light of their own, and Lukas shuddered as he watched him nod solemnly in understanding, for he knew that the veiled purple eyes were now shining with the wisdom of ages, the ancient soul of the nation once again breaking through the guise of childish innocence. He had never witnessed the change to last for more than the briefest of moments and yet every time guilt had washed over him in stifling waves, as he grew more and more certain while decades flew past that it was his own selfishness which kept his brother so young in body and mind, his own almost painful yearning to nurture and protect that held as much love as penitence for all the bloodshed and all the lives unraveled by the steel of his sword.

A loud crash echoed through the corridors and the Icelander fought the blankets away and stumbled across the floor to his brother's arms, a child once more, and Lukas fell on his knees to clutch his brother to his chest.

"I need you to stay here," he whispered against the silvery strands, "and I need you to be brave. Denmark is wounded, so much more than we were, and I must leave to help him endure this night."

The child's hold tightened on Lukas' tunic as his other hand reached out to grasp at platinum hair, forcing his brother's head down until their cheeks touched.

"Don't go alone in the shadows," he spoke, his voice clear and empty of any childish lilt, and as the words died down Lukas felt the chill touch of apprehension slither along his spine. He touched the small fingers holding his hair captive and pried them off one by one, then stood up with his brother safely perched in his arms. Just then a sliver of moonlight shone through the window and came to rest tamely at his feet, and Lukas offered silent thanks to whatever god, old or new, was watching over them that night.

"Look, Emil," he said as he moved to take a blanket from the bed and settled the child on the window seat, wrapping him warmly in the woolen folds, "the moon's keeper drove his chariot free from the clouds. He'll watch over you as you sleep, and come morning I will be back by your side to tell you all about the battles he fought during this night's journey."

The child huffed from beneath his soft shelter but closed his eyes obediently, soothed by the promise of a new story, and Lukas stepped back to retrieve his dagger, hiding it in the folds of his tunic, and then slipped out silently, pausing for just a few breaths to cool his burning forehead against the cold wood of the closed door.

* * *

In the depths of the castle, Denmark's soul was in flames.

Lukas had collapsed not far away and his breath was coming out in gasps as he pressed his back against the wall, clutching his knees tightly to his chest. The Dane's fury stormed inside his mind while he struggled to shield himself from the accursed empathy hurling him straight into the vortex of emotions that Matthias' self had become, blinding him and holding his body in thrall. It had been his best kept secret, his most prized craft, the gift to feel what other nations felt, to gamble with their emotions behind his blank façade defying the dangers that lay therein, yet now, with every nerve in his being screaming as though he was crawling through a scorching morass, he would have gladly forsaken everything for a single moment of sanity. An irate howl threatened to escape his lips and he twisted his neck to bite hard into the soft flesh below his shoulder blade, choking back the sound, but as his teeth carved a neat half-arc of bruises pain flared along his skin and tore through the frayed remains of his composure and his spine contorted in a sharp angle while his head shot back and crashed against unpolished stone. Lukas slumped on his side, defeated. The blow had made the dark shimmer with a myriad gleams and bile rose in his throat as tiny lights reeled at the edge of his vision in a storm of phosphorescent flakes, and he let himself lay open, unguarded, the Dane's feelings filling him like an empty vessel and flowing unhindered through his veins and heart and soul, leaving him no choice but to embrace them as his own, and half-thoughts began to unravel from the shapeless amalgam.

_...Sweden naysayer traitor goddamn poison in our midst..._

_Thief!_

_...he lured them he took them he stole what was mine..._

_...couldn't keep them couldn't protect them now I am alone..._

_ALONE!_

Lukas' body writhed once under the lash of the silent cry and his own thoughts snapped into motion, more and more freely as his will yielded to the assault. He rolled on his back and closed his eyes and, pushing his hands down with his fingers wide-spread on the floor underneath him as a final bond with the tangible world, he followed the beckon of his mind, losing himself in the bizarre sensation of awareness twined, flowing together like two melodies distinct yet touching the same chords at times, and his heartbeats steadied as the foreign self, no longer denied, settled to a mere throb, steadfast yet subdued.

Lukas raked his fingers on the tiles, the cold bite of stone on skin pulling and drawing him back into flesh and bone, and he pushed himself to his feet, brushing sweat-drenched strands away from his eyes. A wave of hatred against everything Sweden had ever stood for slithered anew at the back at his mind, powerful yet no longer crippling, and Lukas smiled grimly. There had been no reason for Berwald to doubt him, for the Norwegian had long wanted him gone, cut away from their lives like a gangrened limb though he knew better than any of them how the poison and decay that their alliance had become flowed in equal parts through the veins of the three older nations. And, while Berwald would claim that the thirst for power had driven the Dane mad and Matthias would rage for hours on end against the Swede's treacherous ways, Lukas blamed himself above all for it was he who, weakened by defeats and plague and deaths, had given himself willingly to the Dane, content to rest and heal while Matthias, with the weight of a broken nation taking a heavy toll on his being, learned that to protect meant to possess. But Berwald never understood or never cared to, and the more he tugged at the reins of dominion, never one to submit, the more the Dane pulled back, truly believing they would never be safe but under his reign, reveling in his newfound power yet frightened of his own loneliness.

Where Berwald only saw cruelty and greed, Lukas glimpsed the fear behind the violence and punishments, for he, too, was afraid.

It was frightening how fast he, who had lived by the sword, had learned how to kneel.

It was frightening how the Swede had lingered for so long out of a twisted kind of loyalty for what they used to be.

And it was frightening most of all how after centuries of watching from the shadows, begrudging his station yet never resolute enough to defy the Dane with anything more than petty quarrels and resentful jibes, he was forced at last to rise and challenge his fate.

At the end of the corridor the door to the Swede's deserted quarters stood ajar and a patch of light spilled through the crack, unfolding like a barrier beneath Lukas' steps. Lukas reached out and touched the wooden surface, listening to the silence, searching for the presence within. He was never meant to escape what was hiding so innocently inside, the promise of pain and scars but also of healing, he had known it as soon as the Swede had laid his plot bare and, cursing his own faltering will, he slid his fingers ever so slowly over the edge of the door which swung open under the caress-like pull and, as the breach grew wider, he took the one step over the threshold.

The room was so bright it nearly blinded him, torches perched in every handle pouring dense veils of light over the ruin around, and Lukas' gaze swept over shattered wood cut to sharp pieces by swings strong and unerring and glass broken in jagged, frozen pools lying scattered in a perfect circle of chaos with its mad creator trapped at the core. In the midst of everything Matthias stood tall and unmoving, his battle axe balanced mid-strike with an ease that made the Norwegian shudder when the other man spun the massive contraption of iron and steel and brought it down with a thundering sound on the slab of stone at his feet. Lukas looked up, searching the pale blue eyes for a trace of the man who used to live inside the nation's shell but the Dane's gaze was shifting, sliding along the lines of the smaller man's body with a hunger that held not enough recollection and too much bloodlust, making Lukas tighten his grasp on the hilt of his dagger. And, as the Dane took a step forward, the double-edged blade scraping jarringly against the floor in his wake, Lukas felt laughter rising inescapably in his chest and he gave in to the nigh forgotten sensation. He laughed at the futility of it all, at the familiar bite of steel on flesh that drifted in ghostly remembrance along his ancient scars as the Dane drew closer, he laughed as Matthias reached out to twist his fingers painfully in his hair and even when the other man let the weapon fall to grasp the left side of the Norwegian's face, Lukas' lips remained twisted in a bitter sneer under the concealing hand.

Damn the madness that led him to believe the Dane would be strong enough to endure the demise of his power with his sanity still whole and damn the arrogance that made him hope he could free the man from the monster, from the nation within by virtue of past feelings alone.

The hold on his skull was growing crushingly strong and Lukas readied his dagger to strike before the crumbling restraint that curbed Matthias' blinding wrath no longer forbade him to shatter and wring but the blade wavered when a small body slid between him and the Dane.

"Let my brother go," Emil hissed and the man released Lukas so suddenly that he stumbled back to witness in horror the Dane's eyes turn upon the child's frail frame with the ruthlessness of a beast weighing up its prey. And Lukas no longer faltered. Seizing the child's shoulder, he pushed him away with a strength that sent him reeling through the open door.

"Emil," the Norwegian spoke with steel in his voice, "run away and don't you dare come back, you understand me?"

And, as he listened to the child stifling his sobs while light steps dragged farther and farther away, Lukas' body went through motions he knew so well.

_Get closer now, before he turns back on you._

_Thrust the blade in, feel how it cuts through flesh and muscle, bury it to the hilt._

_Twist it, make it painful, make him bleed..._

Agony shot through his wrist as bones crushed under Matthias' grasp but his scream died on his lips when the Dane lifted him from the ground and threw him across the room as though he weighed nothing more than a doll filled with straw and he rolled on the debris, sharp edges tearing at his skin and breaking his fall until he crashed into the upturned ruins of a heavy chair that thrust mercilessly into his midriff, forcing all air out of his lungs. Lukas gasped soundlessly, bending disjointedly around the broken plank, his ears ringing with the hypnotic beat of pounding blood while a small part of his mind marveled grudgingly at the Dane's restraint, in belated revelation of how much Matthias had held back each stray blow that would meet his flesh when he still cared enough to drag the stronger man away from the frenzy of fists and blades and curses before either the Dane's body or the Swede's ended shattered on the floor under a tapestry of cuts and bruises.

Lukas wanted to move, needed to move away from the noise of footsteps drawing near, stumbling through remnants of wood and glass, but his face burned under the flowing warmth of spilled blood and his eyelids fell heavily and his limbs refused to obey. When the other man paused at his side and dropped to one knee to lean over him Lukas barely found the strength to blink, his eyes strenuously uncovered to face the world once more. His gaze, hazy and faltering, met a pair of indigo orbs distant yet so familiar and Lukas struggled confoundedly with his own reflection trapped within the narrow confines of a broken looking-glass, so absorbed in his contemplation that a shudder raced through his body when a large hand pressed on his shoulder and turned him to trade mirrored indigo for fierce blue. There was so much unknown in those eyes, so many feelings to be unlocked, and Lukas pried desperately at the Dane's soul for the menace of horrors yet unfolded, but his reason was clouded with the pain of shattered bones, too weak to break through the seal and once again he knew fear. His right hand lay at his side, crushed and worthless, and his left hand still bore the half-closed trail of his own blade, but sharp edges pressed now against it, grazing skin, and he wrapped his fingers blindly around the mirror shard, seeking strength in its sharpness even as it twinned the flawless bite of steel with its own jagged mark.

But the Dane would not have it, he wanted him defenseless and subdued, and Lukas struggled weakly in the other man's grasp as unyielding arms lifted him from the ground and wrung the makeshift weapon out of his hand and tossed it against the wall, away, out of reach, smashing it in tiny useless pieces. Crushed against the Dane's frame Lukas felt weightless, and crimson pearls dripped from the other man's shoulder where his dagger had sunk and seeped into his hair, and when the Dane took hold of his hand once more Lukas froze, awaiting retribution. Yet the fingers enveloping his own did not bruise, did not tear as Matthias brought the mangled palm to his lips and kissed his way along the weeping lines, his touch soft and unbelievably soothing on the tender flesh.

"You're still here, you're still with me, you were never gone," he whispered, his words drawing a warm trail across Lukas' wrist, and Lukas slumped in relief, letting his head rest against the other man's chest.

"Are you done with the madness, Dane?" he sighed, guiding their twined hands to Matthias' shoulder but as he pressed wound to wound, blood engulfing blood as the flow quelled, the Dane's arm released him and pushed him back to the ground and his eyes turned on him, hardened anew.

"You speak to me of madness," he snarled, "when that accursed Swede scorns our bond and cuts through both our bodies? Did he talk to you of his betrayal? Did you plot with him in the night?"

Lukas drank in the fierce gaze that snared him surer than any chain and embraced it with the eagerness of a long-time sufferer of pain who finds solace in a few drops of poison coursing down his veins, craving for more.

"Yes," he hissed, words flowing unbidden. "Yes, I've known it all along." And, as every fiber in his body knotted in promise of more torment to come, the Dane's lips parted in a twisted simulacrum of the smile he kept for Lukas alone.

"You knew it," he said, leaning closer to the prone body beneath him, "you knew it, and yet you chose to stay." His mouth lingered just above the Norwegian's and his breath burned, seeping through Lukas' parted lips and slithering sickeningly down his throat to settle inside his lungs like an ethereal parasite. "You," his teeth closed against flesh in a lacerating kiss, "are mine, only mine, now and forever."

The Dane's hands held Lukas captive, roaming, stroking, searching, and Lukas gritted his teeth, willing himself not to feel those touches of madness that seared his skin with the same fire as the touches of love. And, as the other man marked his claim onto his body with bruises and bites, Lukas doubted for the first time the fate that had bound him to the Dane so flawlessly, giving the Swede to another, and he rebelled.

"Maybe I should have left with him," he whispered, and his mind darkened when Matthias lifted his head to watch him with a gaze that veered between lust and disbelief. He would not let himself be taken so heedlessly, not on the crumbling ruins of their alliance, and his voice rose. "Maybe I will!" he screamed, and his eyes flared like devouring flames. "You taint everything you touch, Dane, and you deserve nothing more than to wither away alone and forgotten."

Matthias straightened his spine and leaned back on his heels, letting his hands lay idly on the Norwegian's chest, watching transfixed as it rose and fell under his fingers. With each blink of his eyes turmoil seeped away from his features like a liquid veil, and when his gaze shifted at last to meet the storm in Lukas' withering stare his clear blue orbs were cleansed of everything but serene determination.

"Do you truly believe," he asked, his fingers moving to trace the graceful lines of Lukas' face, "that we can part ways so easily, you and I? The whole world can scatter to the four winds for all I care, but you, you are bound to me, in life and in death."

As he spoke his touches wandered farther, across the Norwegian's neck and along his collarbone, tasting their frailty and as Lukas tilted his head back, indigo flashing challengingly from beneath hooded lids, his grasp tightened and sank into the ivory flesh deeper and deeper until Lukas' eyes widened in fear and his hand rose to claw weakly at the Dane's. Yet Matthias felt no pain as nails drew bloody half-moons on his skin, for Lukas' fingers were slender and delicate and so frail alongside his own that the Dane lost himself in the sight, in awed recollection of the days when the same hands had wielded a broadsword with frightening skill. Lukas' veins were pounding under his grip like a wild creature fighting to escape and the Dane pushed back with strength renewed, sealing the struggles inside the cage of his hands until they grew weaker and weaker and faded to nothingness and the Dane breathed a relieved sigh as his head fell to rest on the motionless chest, his eyes closing with weariness before he could question the silence within.

And, as shadows claimed him, Lukas could no longer discern if his fingers were wrestling the Dane's hand away or pressing it closer to his bruising skin.


	2. Chapter 2

Part Two

Time had no place in the realm of mists and fires, nor did sounds and touches and pain.

The air shifted like a creature alive, draping its dense mass thick with smoke and ash above the outcrop of rocks, smooth and jagged alike, burrowing inside shallow nooks, hanging by the edges in shivering tatters and slithering down polished slopes. It pooled around the man sitting on his throne of stone, caressing his skin and blinding his sight and shivering in the currents of his breath.

The man kept still bar the slow rise and fall of his chest. Fires burned dimly on the horizon where the land was cruelly torn and flowed with shimmering lava but the man watched unperturbed the play of light and shadow barely revealed through the ashen veil floating between him and the world. Thick threads of stone were seamlessly entwined with the flesh of his arms and shoulders, holding him in place with shackles pierced by the lifeblood of his veins, but no suffering lay in the unearthly fusion.

He did not question. He did not feel. He simply was.

When the debris cracked under footsteps, banishing silence like an evil spell, the man lifted his head to contemplate the silhouette approaching through mists, setting them aglow with the flame of the torch it held high. And, as the shadows yielded the slender body of a youth somehow so familiar to his eyes, the man frowned and his gaze wandered over the pale strands of his hair, his proud shoulders and the disdainful shape of his lips. His thoughts sprang alive, chasing after strands of forgotten, precious memories and his lips shaped the sounds of a familiar word.

"Norge?.."

The youth stepped closer with the same dispassionate ease and knelt at his feet, thrusting the torch into the ground.

"Close, but no," he said, gazing up to reveal eyes that shone purple in the halo of quivering light. "Well met, Danmörk."

"Island?" The man blinked, trying to lift his hand to touch the youth's face, but his arm was fused in stone and he sighed. "This must be a dream then, for the Iceland I know is but a child."

The youth shook his head, his hair shifting along with the movement then settling back in unruly locks.

"This is no dream, Denmark. Our kind never dreams. Our souls are not cut from the same fabric as a mortal's, and as payment for our eternal lives we were not granted the solace of dreams."

"This cannot be true," Denmark whispered. "Every night I dream, without respite. I dream of battles and ages long gone and of the times when we were careless and free."

Iceland raked his hand through the rubble, picking up a thin, black stone and twirled it in his fingers, watching the torchlight play on its polished surface.

"It may be so," he spoke thoughtfully, "but have you ever dreamt of something other than the things that have already come to pass?" He paused, waiting for an answer, but the other man just stared in silence, and he went on. "This is the place where our souls sojourn whilst our earthly shell rests, a place of remembrance, our heaven and hell. Each stone, each speck of dirt holds our future and our past. We come here to live within our memories, again and again, but only few among us, like my brother, can catch those elusive glimpses of things to come which we call premonitions. And yet even he, just like everyone else, forgoes all memory of this place once he returns to flesh and bones to pretend to live a mortal life among mortals."

"Then how do you know of all this?" Denmark asked, staring at the younger man in awe and Iceland laughed drily.

"I am different, for part of my soul is banished here until such times as you and my brother see fit to allow my body to grow strong enough to contain my essence whole. And so I linger here, and see you come and go and watch your so-called dreams, while my other half lives in that blissful haze you call childhood. Do not worry for me though," he added, catching the other man's saddened gaze, "my time will come and I am never lonely, for those of us who are bound in land share here the same confines, and your memories are mine just as mine are yours. Sweden and Finland used to be one with us, and my brother would have stood at our side now, had his soul not been shattered into a million pieces spread far and wide which must flow back together before he can hope to live again.

"For, you see, this is what is left of your Union. It's the spiritual representation of the land of Denmark-Norway, and you are its king. A cruel king, I might add," he smirked, brushing away the thin layer of ash that had settled on his arms. "Apologies, I'm afraid this is the doing of my volcanoes. My other self is not very happy with you right now."

Denmark closed his eyes and leant his head against stone, tears trickling down his cheeks.

"I killed him, didn't I," he murmured. "Norway. I remember now. I had my fingers around his neck and I pressed down and his skin was so soft and his breath so intoxicating that I could not stop until… until he was gone."

Iceland's gaze grew hard, and he got up and came to stand behind the other man and bent to whisper in his ear.

"Yes you did," he spoke, his voice a merciless hiss. "I've seen the future, Denmark. My brother will rise again, and one day he will kill you in retaliation. Then you will kill him once more, then again and again, and with every death and resurrection he will lose a piece of himself in this place. And if this comes to pass, I will end you, have no doubt about that."

"How can I prevent all of this from happening," Denmark asked, his breath coming out in ragged gasps, "if you have already seen it?"

Iceland stood back and leant against a rock, crossing his arms on his chest.

"The future is not set in stone, idiot," he spoke with less cruelty in his voice. "You can alter it once you find the will to escape the madness that has you trapped."

Denmark turned his head to face him and for the first time he smiled.

"Then there is hope," he said, "and I will find a way. And," he added, his grin growing wider, "if this is the man you become, it means Norge and I will raise you well."

Iceland snorted, but then his eyes widened as the other man tried to rise. Tendrils of stone were holding him back but he did not relent and pulled harder, until flesh and stone tore asunder and his teeth grit with pain. Blood was flowing rich and warm from flesh and stone alike and Denmark staggered under his newly found freedom, falling to his knees, and then tasting the jagged ground with the ashen skin of his face. And, as his blood stained the ground crimson, he drifted to merciful senselessness soothed by the faint whispers of the voice he longed most to hear.


End file.
